


Change Clothes

by jendavis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Armor, Clothing, M/M, Prompt Fill, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your clothing is stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change Clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wings128](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings128/gifts).



> wings128 prompted me with: 
> 
> -John wonders what it'd feel like to wear Ronon's gauntlets  
> -"You bleed just to know you're alive." - Iris by Goo Goo Dolls  
> -Ronon teaches John a new skill  
> -Collar  
> -Rough  
> -Hunger 
> 
> And while my brain went all sorts of fun kinky/angsty places, but I was listening to Jay-Z and this is what I came up with instead. Hope you like it anyway!

"You hungry?" John calls, when Ronon comes out of the bathroom. He's dressed, except for his boots, but he's still wringing his dreads with a towel. "Can still make it down for brunch if we get a move on."

Looking down, John realizes he's mis-buttoned, and sets about unbuttoning it to start again. When he looks up, Ronon's scowling bemusedly at his neck.

"What's the deal with your shirts, anyway?" Ronon reaches out, flicks the collar down into place. 

"The collar? What about it?"

"It's... pointy."

John raises an eyebrow. "Yep."

"Why?"

"I... have no idea." 

Ronon doesn't roll his eyes, but it looks to be a near thing, so John turns it around, watching him pick buckle one of his gauntlets into place.

"I mean, why do you wear those?" He's wondered about them before. They come down pretty far, enough that Ronon's got callouses on the inside of his wrist from constantly wearing them that might've been blisters, once. There's no way in hell that they're comfortable. 

Not that Ronon's the kind of guy to worry overmuch about comfort. John's seen him in the infirmary- and during the events that bring him to the infirmary, and he's always been the "bleed just to know you're alive" type. 

Ronon looks at him like he's crazy before rolling his neck. He does that a lot, especially when his hair's wet. It's got to weigh a ton. "Armor."

"Yeah, but... doesn't it kind of leave your arm bare?"

Ronon steps forward, grabbing John's throat, not a little tightly. It's startling, but John just raises his eyebrow.

He follows Ronon's eyes down. He's grabbed onto Ronon's wrist, without even noticing. Now that he has, though, he can feel a rough scratch carved into the otherwise smooth leather on the inside of the wrist. Runs his thumb along the edge of it. It's deep. But the hide's thicker than Ronon's skin. 

"All right, all right." He shrugs him off, not entirely sure what to do with the sudden surge of misplaced worry. Having his circulation hindered is enough to account for the adrenaline spike, but they're standing in the middle of his quarters right now. There's no actual _threat_ here. "You made your point."

The gauntlet had done its job, after all. Ronon's fine.

Or fine enough. 

Ronon's back by the dresser, picking up his other one, but he isn't turning around. "You realize the wraith wear them too, right?"

"Huh?" He blinks. "Yeah. So?"

"So," Ronon turns around, clearly concerned. "Next time one grabs you, don't do what you just did. They're ready for it and you'll just waste energy and time, scrabbling against it."

He starts re-buttoning his shirt. "Any recommendations on what I should do instead?"

Ronon shrugs, takes two steps back towards him. This time, he reaches out more slowly, and because John can see it coming, and he knows what this is, he thinks, instead of reacting. 

Ronon's got him by the throat again, lightly, and he's watching John's hands as they move. It's a little awkward, but he manages to move his arm out to the side and dig his thumb in on the inside of Ronon's elbow. It earns a twitch and a slight easing. John shifts his angle, presses harder, and Ronon's shrugging uncomfortably, dropping his grip. His dreadlocks trail damply against the back of John's hand, trying to massage the last of the pain away.

"Exactly. If you do that," Ronon says, relaxing, "you can get 'em to let go. And if you're lucky enough to have a blade in your hand, you've won." 

"Might not be a bad idea to work that in, next time you're leading the hand-to-hand training."

Ronon shrugs, nodding, and brings his hands up again to John's neck.

John's adjusting his instinctual trajectory, moving towards his elbow instead of his wrist, before he realizes that Ronon's not squeezing. 

He's just finishing up the last two buttons. 

"Let's go," Ronon smirks. "I'm starved."


End file.
